


Little to do and less to say

by robotboy



Series: The Doksany Stories [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Almost Fisting, Episode Related, Episode: s01e09 Knight Takes Queen, First Time, Internalized Homophobia (minor), M/M, MuskiesRewatch, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 20:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: D'Artagnan takes an early morning swim in Bourbon-les-eaux, and Athos joins him.





	Little to do and less to say

Athos woke in the early grey hours. It took a moment to get his bearings: alone, in the tent he’d been sharing with D’Artagnan, where they were camped at Bourbon-les-eaux. The empty bedroll opposite him and a distant splashing confirmed it. Had he slept late? The sliver of gloom between the tent’s flaps suggested otherwise, but he rolled over and tugged his boots and trousers on regardless, to find where D’Artagnan had gone. He must have slipped out silently—Athos felt a flush of pride that they’d trained him to do that.

The sound of water came from a secluded cove near their campsite, away from the Queen’s pavilion; so it wasn’t Her Majesty in any trouble. She wouldn’t rise for hours yet.

September had borrowed its warmth from August. Despite the early hour, it was pleasant in the canyon, hidden from the breeze. Athos stumbled down to the little beach to find what he’d guessed he would find: D’Artagnan was taking the opportunity to bathe in the lake. He swam with confidence, sleek bronze body cutting through the rich blue waters. Athos was not yet awake enough to check himself—or that’s what he would say if the others were here—and he stared. He could admire the agile strength in D’Artagnan’s movement. His slender frame was easily obscured by clothing when he fought, but now Athos could see the coiled power of D’Artagnan’s stroke. Only when D’Artagnan noticed him, and angled his path toward the shallows, did Athos feel as if he’d awoken from a lingering dream.

D’Artagnan emerged dripping wet. The dawn sun glistened off the lithe muscle of his naked skin. Rivulets of water had made whorls through the hair on his chest and belly, meeting in the grooves of his abdomen to slide lower. Athos had seen him undressed before; in bathhouses, traveling, and such. Perhaps it was the mythical properties of the spring that had such an effect. Regardless, Athos was making a fool of himself.

D’Artagnan only smiled and quirked his head. ‘Care to join me?’

Athos’ tongue was thick in his skull. He’d not had a drop of wine since they’d left for the road. His sleep had been fitful, though he doubted anyone could sleep as soundly as D’Artagnan, who could crawl into his bedroll and not make a peep until dawn. Athos was intimately aware of this, after two nights in a tent together. It was just like the first night, after D’Artagnan had gained his commission: Athos had hesitated. He would struggle to find the right words, the right touch to tell D’Artagnan of his affections, only to find D’Artagnan was already fast asleep. Perhaps Athos was dull company; perhaps D’Artagnan was feigning sleep to avoid an unwelcome advance.

Still, a dive in the spring might be similar enough to a bucket of frozen water in the morning. Athos stripped before he could reconsider. He didn’t look directly at D’Artagnan as he waded in, suppressing a shudder at the initial chill. D’Artagnan splashed water at him, chuckling quietly and backing up. Athos rolled his eyes, flicking water back at him. D’Artagnan sat back in the water, dropping until he was submerged to his shoulders. His arms churned, sending him gradually outward as he waited for Athos to reach him.

Athos felt absurdly self-conscious. It wasn’t so much that D’Artagnan had seen him naked, or cold—neither were unusual—it was something about seeing D’Artagnan like this. He was radiant, from his slicked eyelashes to the swift way he cut through the water. Athos strode until he was deep enough, took a breath, and plunged under the surface. The cool rush cleared his head immediately. It was so quiet; such a vibrant blue when he opened his eyes. The water was clear enough to make out the smooth stones on the bottom, and the silhouette of D’Artagnan as he swam to catch up. Athos breached with a gasp, blinking water from his eyes. He pretended not to notice D’Artagnan’s approach, treading water as he adjusted to the temperature.

Only when D’Artagnan had almost reached Athos’ elbow did he move, lashing out to splash D’Artagnan full in the face. D’Artagnan was laughing and Athos smiled back, and they swam out toward the cliff’s edge. They were still hidden from the Queen’s pavilion as long as they circled this side of the ravine. The pool turned from turquoise to indigo beneath them. Athos dived on the spot, curious to see how deep it was. D’Artagnan followed, illuminated by rays of sunlight piercing the water. The rocks sloped lower around them, and Athos was at least twice his own height below the surface before he could see the faint texture in the darkness beneath him.

It was silent down here. For a fleeting moment Athos couldn’t bear the thought of surfacing. It wasn’t the feeling of being alone, exactly: he’d grown to hate being left with his thoughts. No, it was something closer to feeling unseen—except by D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan slipped inside his solitude and saw him, in a way that made Athos feel  _known_. He should have felt exposed, invaded, even just irritated: but for whatever reason he’d welcomed the way D’Artagnan sundered him. So in this compulsion to stay under the water (not an urge to drown himself—he was familiar with what  _that_ felt like), Athos found himself swimming in D’Artagnan’s direction.

D’Artagnan came to meet him, catching his hand to stop them colliding. They still swirled around one another, as though the still waters had some uncanny current drawing them together. And where Athos had once hesitated at what to say, here, there was nothing he  _could_ say. There was nothing to stop him when their lips met.

For all that D’Artagnan knew him, Athos could not be sure he knew  _this_. But D’Artagnan’s mouth was a shock of heat in the cool water, his hands anchoring them together where they might have floated apart. Bubbles tickled Athos’ face as D’Artagnan tried to kiss him harder. With their legs tangled they were sinking, hidden in the depths that Athos so loved.

Athos’ head was getting light without air, his heart thumping against his ribs from more than just the kiss. He squeezed D’Artagnan’s hand and parted from him, keeping them linked as they kicked upward.

They surfaced with rough gasping. Athos’ eyes stung from the sunlight. He dashed them clear and caught his breath. D’Artagnan was panting open-mouthed, his dark eyes wide as they searched Athos’ expression. His hair clung to his face in tendrils, curling around the sharp lines of his face. He was waiting for Athos to speak, though Athos was sure the spell would break the moment he did.

‘Come on,’ Athos mustered, and tilted his head toward the shore. He moved in a slow side-stroke, keeping himself angled toward D’Artagnan. The current that had tied them together pulled D’Artagnan too, until they were keeping abreast in their journey to the secluded cove where they’d started.

The water was shallow before either of them found their feet—far shallower than they’d needed. It was as though walking was as liable as speaking to shatter the moment, growing more fragile the further they moved from the depths.

Pragmatism caught up with them, and D’Artagnan was the first to rise. His towel was draped on a rock, warming in the first rays of sunlight to reach the canyon. Athos followed, scooping up his shirt and cursorily drying himself. D’Artagnan glanced at Athos as he wrung out his hair, and gave him a sympathetic look. He tossed his towel to Athos. It was barely damp when Athos caught it. The air was mild enough that he was comfortably dry in no time. That left him standing on the shore with little to do and less to say.

That kiss might be left in the middle of a lake, a secret they tell no-one.

It might be best that way, Athos thought. That may be best for D’Artagnan. He screwed the towel in his hands, as each second took them further from the moment he’d had the courage to kiss D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan strode up to him. He took the towel from his hands and gave him a long, lingering stare. His eyes dragged down Athos’ naked body with open hunger. Athos took an unsteady breath, and D’Artagnan echoed what he’d said in the lake.

‘Come on.’

Their bodies brushed as he walked past Athos to their tent. D’Artagnan was telling him, in a way that Athos couldn’t question, that there was more to this.

He followed D’Artagnan to the tent as if he were held on a tether.

There was hardly a chance to pull the tent’s flaps closed behind him before D’Artagnan scooped him up and dumped him on the bedroll. Athos landed with a grunt, breathless before they kissed again. D’Artagnan didn’t hesitate, their lips crashing together before his tongue sought Athos’, purring and tugging on Athos’ waist. He’d landed half atop Athos, propped precariously on one elbow.

Athos held D’Artagnan’s face, sweeping his hair back. He’d hoped to be gentle, to make himself less desperate, but his fingers dug in and he tugged D’Artagnan closer. D’Artagnan groaned into his mouth: they were almost too close to kiss, lips dragging and pulling. It was clumsy, urgent, and it nearly broke Athos’ nose. And no matter what Porthos and Aramis had been suggesting to him, no matter that it was happening; this,  _kissing D’Artagnan_ , still seemed impossible. But D’Artagnan was firm, real heat and weight bearing down on Athos, enough to crush the doubt from him. All that Athos had held back was tumbling out of him now, and D’Artagnan; D’Artagnan had always exceeded his expectations. He seemed of a mind to devour Athos, to touch him all over with restless hands. Their limbs tangled together and Athos gasped through his nose as he felt D’Artagnan’s cock filling against his thigh. His own stirred in response and D’Artagnan moaned, a feverish plume of breath on Athos’ cheek.

Athos turned aside for a moment, resting his forehead on D’Artagnan’s. He twisted his hand, fingertips gliding along the underside of D’Artagnan’s jaw. His thumb brushed from the hollow of D’Artagnan’s cheekbone to catch his lower lip, finding it flushed and wet. D’Artagnan’s tongue flitted out to touch the tip of Athos’ thumb, followed quickly by teeth: he nipped Athos in a sudden movement.

Athos’ hips pushed up, finding friction and yearning for more. D’Artagnan hissed at the feeling, biting harder. Athos pried his thumb free with a wet drag down D’Artagnan’s jutting chin. They were clutching each other tightly, fingers digging into skin and hair everywhere they found.

At some point, Athos thought, a question should have been asked, but there was nothing that couldn’t be answered by the eager writhing and rutting between them. They had always communicated this way: from training grounds to battles fought side by side, their bodies flowed with an ease that betrayed something far deeper than either of them could articulate aloud. As though they had been drilled without knowing, dancing to a song with a tune they remembered but couldn’t name. Athos hoped D’Artagnan knew the steps, because soon, Athos would be begging him to lead.

When D’Artagnan had pawed all down Athos’ side, he reached around to grip Athos’ arse. Athos bucked willingly into it, grunting softly as D’Artagnan kneaded the tender flesh. Athos bowed his head, burying the groan in D’Artagnan’s collarbone. Fingertips crept nearer to the crease of Athos’ arse and Athos was shaking, unable to stay composed when D’Artagnan’s curiosity was so close. He brought his leg up to latch around D’Artagnan’s. It granted D’Artagnan the space to slip a touch from his tailbone and down, light enough to tickle. Athos shivered with arousal. D’Artagnan explored cautiously lower, with a touch so gentle it felt like static.

Athos heard the small sound of D’Artagnan’s lips parting, and his stomach dropped. Perhaps this would be it; perhaps things would end here. D’Artagnan looked to him as their leader in all other things, and—no matter what the others felt about the matter—he couldn’t stop the pang of shame when it came to this. It wasn’t that D’Artagnan might prefer Athos to be the one inside  _him_ : Athos certainly wouldn’t object to that. It was that he enjoyed it himself; how  _much_ he enjoyed it; and the lingering fear of what D’Artagnan would think of him after all this. Because Athos was unmistakably possessed by merely the hint of attention. D’Artagnan would feel Athos’ ragged breathing; the throb of his cock where it was trapped between them. D’Artagnan knew already what Athos wanted— _needed_ —from him now, and he was going to ask the awkward question.

‘Would you like me to get the oil?’

Athos blinked.

‘Or, I can… we can…’ D’Artagnan withdrew his hand.

Athos caught his wrist before thinking of what he was doing. D’Artagnan responded by splaying his fingers across the meat of Athos’ arse as a compromise.

Athos found his voice. ‘You  _have_ oil? Here?’

D’Artagnan sighed, turning his head away. ‘Aramis insisted I keep it,’ he muttered.

Athos’ head dropped back against the pillow. Suddenly he could think of a thousand things to say, and most of them were cursing Aramis and his damnable, invasive, infuriatingly canny sense of foresight.

‘He said it cost him five livre,’ D’Artagnan added unhelpfully.

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Fine. Get the oil.’

D’Artagnan rummaged in his pack and produced a bottle that did not cost more than ten sou from any circumspect dealer in Paris. Athos let the matter slide, being far more interested in the way the oil dripped down D’Artagnan’s fingers, how unselfconsciously D’Artagnan slicked his cock until it was glistening.

Athos lay sprawled, enthralled by the way D’Artagnan pumped his cock. D’Artagnan looked back at him with a quirked eyebrow. Athos rose to his knees and kissed him, his hand joining D’Artagnan’s to stroke his cock. He gasped when he felt the size of it—it was hot, heavy, and bigger than Athos had had before. Not impossible, but he admitted to himself that the challenge would make it sweeter.

‘You do want…?’ D’Artagnan asked, with a flourish of his wrist.

Athos nodded, lips still parted against D’Artagnan’s.

‘I thought you might,’ D’Artagnan grinned.

‘You  _what?_ ’

‘… you don’t?’

‘No, I, I do, just… what made you—’

D’Artagnan shook his head, and gave Athos’ hair a tug. Athos sunk immediately into the pull of it: that answered enough for both of them. He let D’Artagnan manoeuvre him to knees and elbows. He kept his arms wrapped around the bedroll’s pillow while D’Artagnan knelt between his thighs.

A slippery finger returned to Athos’ arse, teasing over the pucker. Athos growled: D’Artagnan was either toying or being precious with him, and Athos would have neither. At the sound, D’Artagnan leaned across Athos’ back and bore his weight down. The hand that wasn’t massaging Athos’ rear ran up his spine until it came to rest at Athos’ neck. Then, a moment of pressure from both hands: D’Artagnan was inside him, and pushing Athos’ face into the pillow. All the breath left Athos at once, and his hips tilted back while the pillow caught the sound he made.

The twisting motion of D’Artagnan’s finger suggested Athos was being tested. D’Artagnan was quick to find where Athos liked to be touched, and how: he dragged along a sensitive spot that made Athos’ shoulders collapse, and he added a second finger to reach better. The increased pressure and the off-beat, rocking rhythm that D’Artagnan found had Athos shuddering, biting back a whine that threatened in his throat. Desire coursed through him, and Athos struggled against its rising tide. It was too much, and D’Artagnan’s curiosity would take him too far in that direction. He had to ask D’Artagnan to—

’ _Wait_ ,’ he gasped, and D’Artagnan stilled. Athos rolled his spine, missing the feeling already. ‘Not—not that. Not yet, I’ll…’

Come. He’d come just from two fingers fucking him, and now D’Artagnan knew it.

‘Tell me,’ D’Artagnan murmured, in a lower register than Athos had ever heard him speak in.

Athos breathed, chin tucked to his chest, fingers tugging his own hair.

‘I want more than that.’

‘Before you come?’

 _‘Yes,’_ Athos hissed, with more than one kind of frustration.

D’Artagnan acquiesced, winding his fingers gradually out in a way that left Athos flexible enough for more. Then three fingers were stuffed in Athos so fast he cried out. This time it wasn’t the exploratory hooking motion, but a practiced thrust, getting Athos adjusted to a different kind of stretch. D’Artagnan wasn’t precious with him now.

Still, it wasn’t so much that Athos felt breached, let alone full. He met D’Artagnan’s movement and matched it until he was driving the pace, demanding more. D’Artagnan paused.

‘Do you want another?’

‘You’re enjoying this,’ Athos’ accusation hardly sounded serious under the circumstances.

D’Artagnan’s hand was suddenly between Athos’ thighs, cupping his cock and weighing it. A fingertip followed the wetness that was already trailing form the head.

‘So are you,’ D’Artagnan retorted.

Athos keened helplessly, incredibly aware of how exposed he was. D’Artagnan began stroking him as he worked a fourth finger in, wrist rotating carefully to keep from hurting Athos. Whenever Athos tensed, D’Artagnan stroked his cock until Athos’ attention shifted. Even as Athos could tell there was an impossible quantity of knuckles in him—and still the tip of D’Artagnan’s thumb was brushing the rim—D’Artagnan was making a hushing sound as though Athos were a frightened animal.

Athos took a fortifying breath. ‘D’Artagnan.’

D’Artagnan, damn him, didn’t stop moving, but he slowed down. Athos might have kicked him if he’d stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘When I said I wanted more than that…’

‘You don’t want this?’

Athos gritted his teeth. ‘Not… this time.’

And then Athos  _did_ want to drown himself, because  _this time_ meant so much; more than he could expect D’Artagnan to be ready to hear. It was enough that he regretted D’Artagnan’s careful, gradual withdrawal, and the hollow ache it left behind.

D’Artagnan leaned back over him. His cock slid between along the crack of Athos’ arse, as hard as steel and hot as the fire that forged it. It made Athos rock back into it, too desperate to be ashamed.

‘So you meant… this?’

Athos could  _hear_ him smirking.

 _‘D’Artagnan,’_ Athos warned, with all the authority he could muster after having most of D’Artagnan’s fist inside him.

But D’Artagnan was already mounting him, leaning over Athos with that agile strength it was so easy to underestimate. Athos could feel it now, tight muscle under the soft dusting of hair on D’Artagnan’s torso, arced along his back. One hand kneaded the meat of Athos’ arse, holding him open, while the other crept around and down Athos’ hipbone.

Athos was almost going to say his name again, a plea on the tip of his tongue, when D’Artagnan sunk into him. It was slow, steady, leaving Athos winded and weak-limbed. When D’Artagnan had filled him to the hilt he paused, with a quiet grunt that Athos felt on the back of his neck more than heard. He withdrew gradually, almost reluctantly, and Athos lifted his head, twisting until he could see D’Artagnan in the corner of his eye. His brow was rumpled, lips parted, a deep dark hopefulness in his eyes that Athos realised he knew well. Athos couldn’t kiss him from this angle, but he rubbed his cheek against D’Artagnan’s nose, which was somehow more tender anyway. For a heartbeat they were still, silent, anchored. Then Athos adjusted his stance, bracing, and D’Artagnan sensed his intent. His hips surged forward and they made precisely the same sound at the feeling. Athos’ cock jumped when D’Artagnan took hold of it, working it slick as he lingered as deep as he could in Athos. Athos dropped his head once more and gave himself over to all of it, to the instinct that had always guided them to one another.

D’Artagnan began to move, a frantic pattern that pounded into Athos. Anywhere more discreet and Athos would be shouting: as it was he kept the keening noises that escaped him muffled in the bedroll. He rode between D’Artagnan’s cock and his hand, at a pace that would leave grazes on his knees and elbows. And like the bruises on a sparring ground, Athos welcomed them, the long promising hurt that drove everything else out of him, that bore on his skin some sign that D’Artagnan had the best of him. D’Artagnan was bowed over him, alternately a solid presence grounding Athos, and then a slithering, slippery thing that could take Athos to pieces from the inside.

It was just like how they sparred, and it was something else entirely.

Athos couldn’t take a full breath, nails digging half-moons into his palm, his thighs shuddering. D’Artagnan pressed over him, filling him, and under Athos’ own gasps he could hear his name being wrung from D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan’s cock was hitting that spot he’d found, over and over. Athos bit down on his wrist, stopping a long cry that would ring the valley wide, his hips churning and a bright burning feeling cresting under his skin, everywhere D’Artagnan was touching him. And D’Artagnan said his name again, a strangled sound being dragged out of him, and it dragged the orgasm from Athos too. He whined, each thrust of D’Artagnan’s hips driving him to the edge again, and again, D’Artagnan milking come from him. Athos’ blood roared in his ears, shivers washing through him, still keeping apace with D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan slowed, even as his cock throbbed inside Athos. ’D’you want me to—’

Athos shook his head wildly, before realising he’d need to speak. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said hoarsely, and snapped his hips for emphasis. ‘Don’t you  _dare_ stop.’

D’Artagnan didn’t. Now it hurt properly, beautifully, and even if there was only  _this time_ , Athos was marked: D’Artagnan knew him now, knew him as this, and no sparring match would ever end in Athos’ surrender  _without_ this memory for either of them.

D’Artagnan fucked him with that fierce energy Athos had always loved, even as the discipline Athos had so carefully drilled into him began to unravel. The raw edges of D’Artagnan were showing as he drove on, Athos’ body still sparking with pleasure when D’Artagnan was sheathed fully inside him. Athos was wrecked, pliable when D’Artagnan gripped his belly to pull their bodies together, in a labyrinthine grind that kept them pressed intimately close. Athos could feel every tremor, hear the soft crooning sound as D’Artagnan came inside him. He clung to Athos, as if he could bring them closer, growing gradually heavier as Athos realised just how much D’Artagnan had been holding himself taut. Athos wanted to collapse too, but he was enough of a mess without sinking into the pool of come underneath him. He listed to one side until D’Artagnan simply tumbled off with a plaintive groan. They lay there, catching their breath, until Athos noticed that the sunshine in the crack of their tent was brighter than it had any right to be.

‘D’Artagnan,’ he croaked, and every muscle in his body complained.

D’Artagnan wriggled, planting a kiss somewhere on Athos’ shoulder. While the gesture was sweet, Athos hauled himself upright and patted D’Artagnan’s belly until he did the same. D’Artagnan’s eyes were blown black, beads of sweat creeping around his hairline, flushed and lovely to look at. Athos wondered if he could get away with another cold plunge in the lake: they both needed one before they’d look decent.

‘Your clothes are still outside,’ Athos grumbled, and D’Artagnan’s face took on a slightly panicked blankness. He fumbled for spare breeches, and Athos did the same—much more cautiously, as his thighs were growing more tender by the minute. Half-dressed, they somehow looked  _less_ decent, but there was nothing for it. The earlier they left, the likelier they could steal out and collect the things they’d left on the shore without the others noticing.

D’Artagnan staggered out of the tent and Athos followed. The sun couldn’t have stung more if he’d actually had a hangover. He almost fell over D’Artagnan, who’d stopped outside. Their clothes had been left folded beside the tent.

Athos scowled. Porthos and Aramis sat propped against a tree nearby, making themselves a sumptuous breakfast from provisions. They looked up at the tent and gave a round of theatrical applause. D’Artagnan cut a graceless path toward them, almost falling on the loaf of bread they were tearing apart. Porthos laughed heartily, giving him a one-armed hug. He winked up at Athos. Aramis threw an piece of bread at him, and it bounced off Athos’ chest.

Athos closed his eyes, counted to ten, forgave them, and sat in the circle. Aramis handed him an apple, and he took a bite from it before allowing himself to speak.

‘Oil, Aramis? Really?’ Athos growled.

‘If I was going to lose the wager, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable,’ Aramis replied cheerfully.

‘We have different definitions of uncomfortable,’ Athos said.

D’Artagnan shifted his weight from Porthos to lean entirely along Athos’ side. The languid warmth improved his mood considerably.

Aramis bought his favour with a cut of ham and a sparkling smile.

‘Wait… what was the wager?’ D’Artagnan asked.

The other two talked circles around him, spinning increasingly elaborate fiction. D’Artagnan laughed and played along, feigning gullibility until the lies became outrageous. As the four of them settled into the balmy stillness of the morning, it became less clear where one of them began and another ended.

Athos rested an arm around D’Artagnan, and his eyes were drawn back to the water. He realised he had left something in the middle of the lake.

It wouldn’t be missed.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was very self-indulgent, right down to the time I took to write it. The real loser of the bet is me, who took until after Christmas to make this happen. I encourage you to bother me if you get impatient for the next one, as I am extremely susceptible to bothering.


End file.
